


Showing Herself to the Sky

by iulia_linnea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iulia_linnea/pseuds/iulia_linnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luna understands about Harry wanting to watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showing Herself to the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Written 16 April 2005.

Luna understands about Harry wanting to watch; they are pretty, moving together, murmuring heatedly, making love. Hermione, with her hair damp and falling in long, sweat-dampened strands into her open mouth, tightens her legs against Ron's sides as he swivels his hips and dips slowly down between her thighs to stroke that spot that Luna has heard all girls have but has never found in herself. Harry, his eyes fixed—Luna thinks upon the other boy's broad back—stuffs half one hand in his own mouth to bite back a groan and moves the other to press it against the straining need half-hidden by his trousers.

She has always been able to perceive clearly in darkness.

Luna is glad that Harry did not wear his robes this time; she loves watching him touch himself, stroke himself, in time with the movement of his best friend's hips. But lately, she believes that Harry must be feeling guilty about his voyeuristic pursuits because he does not allow himself to come with the others, and she does not like this change.

It is lonely coming alone.

One hand in her knickers, her fingers spreading her slick flesh to tease herself in time with each grunt uttered by Ron, Luna focuses her attention on Harry's face: it is pale rather than flushed, pained rather than fascinated. It hurts to see him deny himself, something she does not understand, so she turns away to observe that now the muscles in Ron's ass are clenching, his head is thrown back, and he is keening—which means that she can stop her game and twist her clit until she comes. She draws blood out of her lower lip and shudders through Ron and Hermione's afterglow. Harry takes the hand away from the front of his trousers and balls it into a fist.

It will not do, she thinks, for watching Harry pleasure himself is the reason she visits these trysts.

She wonders if she came to the clearing, just inside of the Forbidden Forest, before Harry, and thinks not. He follows his friends everywhere, just as she has shadowed Harry since the beginning of Seventh Year. She discovers more of herself on these nights secreting herself on the edge of this clearing, with its soft bed of moss and leafy canopy, and she finds that she knows nothing of shame. 

If Ron and Hermione did not wish an audience, they would never have shown themselves to the sky.

Luna catalogs Harry's expressions and sees guilt chasing desire away—but not far. She yearns to taste his skin, and does not pine. As Harry runs his hands through his hair, she decides she is not going to wait any longer. He is still hard. He is still wanting. She thinks he might desire her, if he knew she was watching. 

She knows he will not say no, if she shows him the sky.

Walking with a light step toward her object, she feels the radiance of the stars fall around her, over her hair and into her soul. She is quivering with a silver desire that burns like eldritch—more thrilling than burning, but just as deep. She wants Harry to plumb the depths untraveled within her.

She knows he will find what remains unsought by any other.

She hears the sated couple leaving, and sighs as Harry leans into the tree—always the same one—that is his familiar refuge. Bark tells stories, she knows, and she means to carve her own chapter under its branching book. She has seen her parents' story there, and sees nothing wrong in adding her own. Harry only sees inward, and he does not look up at Luna or the sky or anything as she approaches him. He wants to believe that he is the villain in this tale.

But if he can rescue her from her that vast emptiness that stretches inside her body, she knows he will be her hero.

She touches him to let him know that she understands, and he starts without comprehending why—until she rakes her nails in a speaking way over the damp wool of his trousers. And now he sees her, shifts into the pressure of her palm, and gasps. He knows enough about the genre not to protest when she unfastens his trousers and pulls them with his y-fronts down to his ankles. The dusky hairs decorating his legs stand on end, and Harry rises proudly before her.

She knows her part, even though she has never played it, and draws him into her mouth.

Luna writes over the vein of Harry's cock with her tongue, sketches no impatience upon Harry by sucking him hard without preamble. She likes this posture. Kneeling before him makes it easier to take his prick to the back of her throat, and when she gags on the journey, swallows, Harry cries out his joy and throws back his head.

She hopes he is seeing the sky; she knows it sees him.

She leads him, after his hands have unclenched from her hair, toward the clearing. He is holding up his trousers because in her haste to show him herself, she has not allowed him to do himself back up. He seems uncertain, but she is not, and reveals to him whyso under the starlight. Harry's hands on her skin feel to Luna like promises; his lips licking her nipples make her arch her back; and his teeth feeding light bites into her skin are reminders of who she is.

In the sunlight, it is easy to forget.

Harry takes off his clothing, too, standing above her for half a beat before blanketing her with his body. And Luna thinks of the sun, of its heat, of its energy, and knows that Harry will make her feel alive. He kisses her with certainty, his hands following the path of her body, and she shivers as his fingers seek out the entrance to the mystery she yearns to solve.

It does not bother her that Harry's fingers know the way.

They slide in and out, two of them, in and out, three of them, and Luna does not trouble herself to care about the names of the others he has known. He only ever screams out two of them. She wants him to cry her name out. She needs—oh!—that pressure coaxing her inner flesh to weep out its secrets for him. And then he whispers to her that he wants her, and she lets him know she wants him, too, by thrusting her hips upward.

Harry laughs at how her skin shines in the starlight.

And then he is there, inside, his questing hips undulating against her own, and Luna can barely believe it is true after the brief flare of pain turns that page for her: all girls do have that spot. Harry thrusts against it again and again, his head falling back so that she can see his throat, and the eldritch rises behind her eyes to blind them from the sound of her own voice. 

But she hears clearly enough how her own name sounds as Harry murmurs it in a litany of revelation.

She asks him later if he saw the stars, if the sky saw him, and if he understands why he has been watching. And Harry, cradling Luna against him in the warm and dampened moss, curves his mouth into a smile and says that she is beautiful and strange and brave. Luna does not argue with him for being silly; she has been found, and that is all she has ever wanted—to be discovered by the sky.

But she likes it very much, indeed, when Harry carves their initials in the Lovers' Tree.


End file.
